“e quindi uscimmo a riveder le stelle” —Dante Alighieri, 34th Canto, La Divina Commedia A tiny thing, a particle, a protein anointed in oil,
you have the smallest hands than buds on seedlings have you have them smaller than the hands of seeds in the hands of grass
I drive by your house, sometimes, the way an aging hunter runs his hand over a buffalo pelt, a broken hart’s spine, feeling for
the gap between her thighs delicate like the space a wolf spider’s ground web claims between strands laced across fallen willow oak leaves fragile